


The Adventures of Captain Crowbar and Spider-Man

by ciaconnaa



Series: Spidey of the Nine-Nine [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: F/M, this fic....is ridiculous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 00:53:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17376431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ciaconnaa/pseuds/ciaconnaa
Summary: Peter gasps. “It's like you're psychic. A super-powered brain. You sure you aren’t an Avenger, too?”“No. And the answer to the next question, 'Is Spider-Man an Avenger?' is also, no.”“I’m an honorary Avenger, Em. It’s a big deal.”“Stark comes up with fancier ways to say lackey every single day.”or;When Michelle gets mugged and hit over the head with a crowbar, she's gifted with a concussion. It's not a fun time. Luckily, she has Spider-Man's number.





	The Adventures of Captain Crowbar and Spider-Man

She’s wearing two different colored converse: one black, one navy.

It’s not be design. Michelle didn’t do it on purpose. As she sits in a shaking heap on a nasty alley floor, bloodied hands tangled in her wild hair, it’s all she can focus on. She’s wearing two different colored shoes like a _moron._

The adrenaline pumping through her veins lends her back her memories on a sporadic, unpredictable sentient timeline. Bits and pieces play over and over again like a Vine on repeat. A man stalking her as she rounded the corner. A small chase. A crowbar for a bat. And her head, the baseball.

Her shaking hands move to the back of her head and she whines a little at the sticky feeling of blood.

Her bag lay strewn against the adjacent wall. She tries to remember what she had in there. Her wallet with fourteen dollars in and a three worn library cards. Her sketchbook. Pencils. Half a dozen crumpled up receipts. Her meds. God. All this fuss for less than twenty dollars and some fucking pills you can’t even get high off of.

But not her phone. That had been in her pocket. She regrets to find that she screen has cracked in her fall, but not horrendously so. Michelle is still able to call Peter without so much as another scratch to her already scraped hands.

He picks up on the third ring, sounding a little out of breath. “Ned,” he sounds exasperated, but in a way that doesn’t have any bite to it. Peter isn’t very good at getting truly upset with Ned. “I told you, I’m busy, I can’t -”

“Not Ned. MJ.”

There’s a pause and some _thwip_ noise. “MJ?” A _thump._ “It’s really late - everything okay?”

She’s not the type to call someone like Peter when she needs help. Hell, she’s not one to _ask_ for help from anyone, ever. And not because she’s so stubborn and naive to believe she doesn’t need it. Quite frankly, Michelle is quite good at the whole loner scene. She truly, genuinely, rarely finds herself in a pickle she can’t get out of on her own. It’s one of the reasons she isn’t afraid to walk home by herself from a late night coffee shop. She can take care of herself.

Except when some loser-ass mugger hits her with a crowbar and she _can’t._ She knows this much. She swallows her pride and tells him, “I need help.”

“Yeah? What’s wrong?”

“I was walking home and someone attacked me,” Michelle admits with annoyance. “I’m not in any grave danger, but Spider-Man would be super helpful.”

“Someone _attacked -!?"_ He stops short, takes a deep breath. "Okay, okay. Where are you?”

It takes her minute to remember. Her head is pulsing and there isn’t a street sign she can see. “Um…”

“MJ. MJ, where are you.” His voice is desperate.

“Shh, shh, I’m thinking,” she moans. His anxiety is giving _her_ anxiety, and it’s making her nauseous. Well, that or the concussion. “I don’t know,” she finally admits. “I got whacked in the head pretty hard.”

“Whacked?”

“A crowbar?” she says, but now she isn’t so sure. “Maybe a pipe. Some sort of weapon that probably warrants a tetanus shot.”

Peter swears. And Peter _never_ swears. “Where were you coming from?” He finally asks when he’s done being a potty mouth.

“Jeez, you kiss Miss Potts with that mouth?”

“MJ.”

“Two Sugars. The coffee shop that -”

“- you like because it has the most college kids in crisis for you to sketch. In Brooklyn.”

Yeah. Brooklyn isn’t exactly close. “Sorry.”

“No, that’s okay. Brooklyn’s not far for...uh, for me. I’ll find you. Be there in less than ten.”

He’s there in five, swinging on top of the adjacent building’s roof before he uses his freaky sticky hands to climb down the rest of the way, jumping down beside her without so much as a _thump._ He doesn’t even look behind him to check for people before he rips his mask off, his face hardly identifiable in the low-light grim alley Michelle’s been left in.

Michelle has known that Peter’s been Spider-Man, officially, for a week now. As in, that’s when he told her. But she’s had a hunch ever since the disaster in D.C with the decathlon team and she’s _known_ ever since he ditched Liz at the Homecoming dance. How no one else has figured it out is beyond her. Midtown High is supposed to be full of smart kids, Eugene the glaring exception. Go figure.

But even though she’s known for months, it’s still strange to see him in front of her as Spider-Man, mask-less. It just looks like Peter in a cosplay costume for New York Comic Con. But it’s the same Peter who stopped a bus with his bare hands and brought down a Stark Industries plane in a fiery explosion. She’s only truly begun to meld the two identities together and it’s a bit...daunting.

“Hey,” he whispers, giving her a small smile that pulls her out of her thoughts. He lays his mask over his thigh as he crouches beside her, his hands immediately picking through her messy, curly hair to look at the wound on the back of her head. “You okay?”

She’s already told him that yes, she’s fine, but in the five minutes it took for him to get here she feels...less so. The nausea is really hitting her now. So much that she barely has enough time to shove him away and turn her head to puke in an already nasty puddle of alleyway garbage water.

“Guess that’s a no,” Peter sighs, thumb brushing away at the corner of her mouth before she even has time to contemplate using her sleeve or tell him to fuck off. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me too,” Michelle snorts.

“I’m just glad you’re awake.” He extends his arm and a web shoots out of his wrist with a soft _thwip,_ honing in on her open backpack lying destitute on the other end of the alley. It seems while Michelle was a worthy enough target, her Good Will Chic backpack with the blue ink stains on the bottom isn’t loot worth keeping. He pulls it close to him and starts rummaging through her things, checking to see what’s taken and what’s been left behind. “Wallet’s gone. So is your sketchbook.”

She nods to the dumpster where there’s an overturned book full of water-stained sketches she’s been working on all week. “Try again. I guess I’m no Michelangelo for this guy.”

His smile is tight, the lecture of _no that’s not true, you’re great, you’re so good blah blah blah_ on the tip of his tongue, clearly, but he gets his priorities straight and drops it, digging through the bag once more. “Besides your wallet was there anything…?”

“Just my big, scary gun. You think he took that?”

“Michelle.”

She sighs, but it sounds more like a pained groan. “My meds.”

Peter looks once more. “Nope. Swiped.” A panicked look sweeps across his face. “They aren’t like, super important are they? I mean, all meds are _important_ I just meant like... like an inhaler or something?”

“Antidepressants,” Michelle admits, which isn’t something she’d normally admit. Stupid concussion.

“Oh,” Peter says softly. “Well, we can get new ones. I...I’ll make sure you get new ones, don’t worry.”

She snorts. “What, does Spidey have an in with the CVS pharmacist?”

He laughs for the first time since he found her in a heap in the alley. “If that’s what you want to call the Avenger’s team of super secret doctors, then sure.” He stands up, mask gripped in one hand and offers her his other. “Can you stand up?”

She whines, _actually whines,_ as she grips her head with both hands before she curls into herself, pressing her forehead into her knees. “No. I really don’t think I can.”

He’s by her side in an instant once more, a soothing hand running up and down her back. “Okay, okay. Hey, that’s fine. That’s okay. I can carry you.”

Michelle almost throws up thinking about him swinging her across town to the nearest hospital. He’d offered her once, back when he let her know about the whole vigilante gig last week. She’d been too scared, though she told him it was because she thought it’d be lame.  Now she’s simply too nauseous. “No Spider-Manning.”

“Huh?”

“My head cannot take you swinging me like some rag doll at forty miles an hour. No Spider-Man.” She groans, lifting her head, allowing Peter to crouch closer into her personal space. One of his hands cups her cheeks thumb sweeping across her cheekbone.

“Okay,” he says for the umpteenth time this night. “We can do that. But I’ll need your jacket. And your shoes. And….these!” he pulls out a pair of Midtown Tech sweatpants that are still miraculously in the bag. “Jeez. Most guys just take the whole bag and bolt. You’re lucky he left behind such gems.”

“Yeah, I’m real lucky,” Michelle grumbles, rubbing at the back of her head. Peter is quick to pull her hands away before he helps her shrug out of her oversized coat. It’s longer on him, but just a bit snugger, she notices, as he does a dumb hopping dance to put on her sweatpants and shoes.

“Wow,” he snickers, stuffing the first shoe on his foot. “These actually kinda fit. How big are your feet?”

“Maybe it is _your_ feet that are unusually small, _Parker._ ”

He sticks his tongue out and blows a raspberry.

“You always do this,” he eventually says, tying up the last shoe.

“Do what.”

He doesn’t answer her until he has her dirty backpack on. “One black,” he he kicks up his left foot, “and one navy,” he kicks up the other.

Michelle prides herself on being observant. She’s not so happy about learning this fun fact about herself. _“Shit._ Do I really?”

“Yeah, of course, I always thought- wait.” his grin is full-blown. “Are you saying that Miss Observant is practically colorblind and unable to select the correct shoes before she goes to class?”

“At 5:30 in the morning and I’m barely awake to make coffee, yeah, I guess I am.”

He’s still grinning as he finishes up his stolen ensemble by zipping up the coat high so that none of the suit is visible, aside from a bit of his fingers poking out from the sleeves. “You wake up that early for school? Yikes. Alright, up we go.”

The ease at which Peter picks her up is startling. He wraps her around his front before he reaches around to stuff his mask in her backpack, she realizes that he could pick her up with one hand. Maybe one finger. She hardly weighs that of a bus, and he’s stopped one of those.

“You good?” Peter asks her softly, his hand rubbing up and down her back. “Crap, you’re already kind of cold. Are you cold?”

She just shivers in response before he pulls his hand away from her back. Michelle hears some beeps and clicks that sound like some sort of watch before there’s a soft hissing sound that comes from inside Peter’s coat.

“Got a heater in the suit. Some of the warmth should be coming through, yeah?”

It is. The shivers go away but the pounding in her head remains. “Just know I might throw up on you,” she admits, burying her face in his shoulder. She wraps her arms tighter around him and he does the same to her in response.

“If you have to, you have to. No big deal. Wouldn’t be the first time Spidey’s been thrown up on.”

“I don’t want to know, do I.”

“Probably not.” His hands move to pick at her hair, obviously reassessing the damage Mr. Crowbar Criminal did to her. But eventually he gives up and one of his hands goes back to rubbing at her back, the other tucked underneath one of her thighs. “The dry cleaning bill was insane.”

“You want me to believe you send your superhero suit to the _dry cleaners?”_

Peter laughs. “No, guess not. But God, that’d be funny. Funnier than me accidentally dying all of our whites pink.”

“Moron,” Michelle teases, but there’s no bite to it. She lets the insults in her head fade away as Peter walks out of the alleyway and down the street. The cold hair creeps up her back despite Peter’s super duper fancy heater and she shivers again, resting her head soundly on Peter’s head. He doesn’t flinch when her lips brush against his neck.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says suddenly, right as she’s about to fall asleep. He’s rubbing her back again, this time not so soothing. “You need to stay awake. Tell me...how many disciplines there are in the Winter Olympics.”

“Seriously? Decathlon practice?”

“If you don’t know the answer, just admit it, MJ.”

She sighs. “Fifteen.”

“Wowie, so smart. Hmm, let’s see. What’s the smallest country by population?”

“I’m the captain. I ask the questions.”

“Fine,” Peter agrees. “Go ahead.”

But she doesn’t want to. Doesn’t think she can manage coming up with them. “Vatican City,” she grumbles. “And to answer your next question, the smallest country by land area is also Vatican City.” He's not trying very hard with the questions. She makes a mental note to always make Ned captain in case of her absence.

Peter gasps. “Psychic. A super-powered brain. You sure you aren’t an Avenger, too?”

“No. And the answer to _Is Spider-Man an Avenger_ is also, _no.”_

Peter gasps again. His hand underneath her thigh moves slightly as he changes his grip, coming devastatingly close to her ass. “I’m an honorary Avenger, Em. It’s a big deal.”

“Stark comes up with fancier ways to say _lackey_ every single day.”

He laughs at that one as they come to a stop. He hits the call button at the crosswalk and they wait like normal people do. Well, sorta. Peter carrying MJ like this through the streets in the middle of the night is a little strange, but it’s not like it’s as weird as like a _Spider-Man sighting._ Even though those are...pretty common-place these days.

The thought of Peter as Spider-Man and her recent acceptance that they really are one entity has her head spinning. She buries her face into Peter’s neck with a groan.

“Hey, you okay?” he whispers, even though there’s no one around. “Want me to put you down for a second?”

Strangely enough, that’s the last thing she wants. “No.”

“I’m serious about the puke thing.” He hugs her closer, despite his words. “If you get sick, it’s okay. I won’t be upset.”

“I don’t think I’m gonna be sick.” She moves her head, chin resting on his shoulder. “You’re safe right now.”

“You sound a bit sluggish,” Peter says, unable to mask the worry in his tone. She doesn’t blame him. She heard it too, but it’s not like she can help it. She’s tired and her head _hurts._ “Just keep talking to me, yeah? What’s the capital of Canada?” he asks and he starts walking again, pace a little faster.

He’s going easy on her, how _sweet._ “Otterwa.”

He chuckles, a hand going to smooth some of her hair down. “ _Ottawa_.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Mmhmm. Sure did. What are...your parents’ names?”

He’s fishing. It’s no secret that Michelle’s, well, _secretive._ In a way she supposes that doesn’t make her so different from Peter. The only difference is she knows how to keep a secret and leave her private life _private._ But….if he was willing to tell her he’s Spider-Man _and_ possibly puke on his fancy Tony Stark suit, she supposes he can know a few things about her, too.

He’s so lucky she’s concussed.

“Sabrina and Ines.” She says.

“Yeah?” Peter asks softly. “Are they- does that mean-”

“That they’re _lesbians?_ Pretty sure,” she snorts. “I’m adopted.”

“Oh. I never knew that.”

She sighs into his neck. “Doesn’t really come up.”

“So...what do they do? Your parents.”

She’s tired. Her head hurts. Michelle does not want to indulge him.  “Stuff.”

But Peter won’t relent. He jostles her a bit, just enough to have her head slip from his shoulder. “Don’t sleep on me now. Let’s hear it. Ooh! Can I guess?” He doesn’t give her time to answer. “Sabrina sounds like some rich New York socialite. A curator at the MOMA.”

“She’s an anthropology professor.”

“So close. But that means Ines is definitely a Parisian-style chef with her own Manhattan eatery and is the protagonist inspiration for Nancy Meyers’ next hit rom-com.”

“I like those movies,” she admits and she could _die._ Why does she ever open her mouth and _say things._

Peter stops and leans back, just so he can be sure she sees his shit-eating grin. “Waaaah, no way. You like Nancy Meyers movies?”

Michelle buries her face into his shoulder, embarrassment warming her cheeks and warding off the cold. “They’re _good.”_

“Oh, I know. I’m partial to the Parent Trap. What’s your favorite?”

Fuck it. She might as well. “Something’s Gotta Give.”

“Oh my God,” Peter deadpans. “This is the best day of my life.”

“Please stop talking.”

“Do you have a secret crush on Jack Nicholson.”

“No. Shut up.”

“Diane Keaton.”

“Stop.”

“I’m so stupid - it’s Keanu Reeves.”

She’s not in a state where she can lie particularly well. Defense it is. “He’s _hot_ okay?”

“Ohhhhhhhh”

“Peter.”

“Myyyyyyyy”

“Peter.”

“Goooooooddddddd.”

“Just drop me. Drop me where you stand.”

“Never.” Peter’s voice is soft. Firm. The amusement still lingers, though. “I’m sorry,” he finally says but he doesn’t sound very _sorry_ to her. Maybe only half sorry. “I’ll stop.”

“With the Keanu Reeves thing or your incessant chatter?”

“Keanu Reeves. As far as the chatter goes, I’ll never shut up.”

“A girl can dream.” Michelle rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t fight it when Peter hugs her tighter and his hand goes back to gently rubbing up and down her spine.

“But I’ll stop with the personal questions,” he admits. “I know you don’t like them very much. But just tell me this: was I right?”

“Right about what?”

“Is Ines a Parisian chef?”

“Conservation scientist.”

_“So close.”_

Not really, of course. But what is close is the hospital. She hears the blaring of a siren as an ambulance races past them down the street and the noise is _painful._ It makes her spin. “Peter. Peter. Put me down.”

He does just in time for her to throw up what’s left of her late night coffee on the sidewalk.

“Almost there,” Peter whispers, pulling her hair back. “Almost there. I got you, c’mon.”

They walk into the ER and Michelle winces at all the bright lights. When she takes a small misstep, Peter grabs her before he explains to the lady behind the desk that Michelle has a severe head injury via a crowbar, hoping that’ll get them priority. It does, and after Michelle barely manages to type her social for the medical records, she’s wheeled into the back for vitals. Pulse, normal. Blood-pressure, a little low. The nurse glances at her head and assures her they’ll try to get her a bed as soon as possible.

But she still has to go and wait in a packed waiting room. There’s one chair left in the middle of what looks like two people with similar injuries: a broken hand and maybe a broken collarbone. There’s no room for a wheelchair, though, so Peter wheels her to the end of a row of seats and settles in a crouch beside her, a hand on her knee.

“You’ll be okay,” Peter says softly, thumb brushing against her kneecap. The sleeves cover most his his hand, only his fingers, bright red, poke out. He’s not looking at her, he’s _elsewhere,_ his eyes a little vacant and squinty. The fluorescents are just as much his friends are they are hers right now.

“I know,” Michelle whispers. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

He looks up and smiles at her, pats her knee, and goes back to staring off at nothing.

He only gets up when they call her back, about twenty-five minutes later. They’re ushered into ER overflow, and Peter is ever the gentleman as he turns his back to let her strip into the oh-so-fashionable hospital gown before he sets camp at her bedside on a hospital-issued cardboard-looking fold-up chair.

The nurse comes in, makes her to go to the bathroom to take a pregnancy test, and then takes her blood while assuring her that someone should be along to take her to CT shortly. “What’s your pain level?” she asks, and Michelle doesn’t hesitate to answer with a “Eight,” before the woman nods and promises to come back shortly with some morphine.

“I’m sorry you’re in pain,” Peter whispers, just as the woman from registration comes in with her on-wheels out of date computer. She immediately asks for Michelle’s insurance information and she blanches. It’s all in her wallet, it’s nothing that she has memorized.

“I’ll take care of it,” Peter announces before she can even think about calling one of her moms. Michelle is more than stunned as Peter gives over billing information that certainly isn’t hers and probably isn’t _his_ which means -

“Tony won’t mind,” Peter assures her when the registration is all done and the wonderful nurse has returned with the morphine.

But she minds. Sorta. Not the taking money from Tony Stark part, that’s obvious. What she minds is that Peter has access to it. He has access to Stark’s funds, his group of super secret doctors, his labs. He’s probably got Bruce Banner on speed dial and helps Stark with Colonel Rhodes suit and it’s all because Peter’s _Spider-Man._ It’s true what she said about him not being an Avenger. On paper, he’s not. That’s the true and honest academic decathlon answer. But Michelle knows better. Peter Parker is basically an Avenger. That means bigger battles, bigger injuries. Bigger stakes.

Her head injury suddenly feels so small. So insignificant. So painless-

Oh, wait, that’s the morphine.

“Has she ever had pain medicine like this before?” the nurse snickers as Michelle sighs contently, leaning back into her hospital bed.

“I’m guessing not so much,” Peter laughs a little with her before he reaches out and smooths some of her hair back. “Feel better yet?”

Oh, does she. “This stuff works fast.”

“Glad to hear it’s helping,” the nurse says. “Should tie her over until her CT. Hit the call button if you need anything.”

Peter answers for her. “Will do. Thanks, Jen.” As the nurse scuttles off, Peter continues playing with her hair and says, “I sure do hope our captain’s brains don’t melt in the CT machine.”

Michelle snorts, letting her eyes drift close. Peter pinches her to stay awake. “Maybe the radiation will give _me_ superpowers.”

He gasps dramatically, all soft and quiet, before he leans and and whispers, “Spider-Man and his sidekick, Captain Crowbar! I can see the Daily Bugle headlines now.”

“Dude, no.” She opens one eye and looks at him, tiredly. “You’re the sidekick. You’d definitely be the sidekick.”

“Yeah,” he reaches down and squeezes her hand, fingers rubbing against chipped black nail polish. “I’m definitely your sidekick.”

She doesn’t have the energy to roll her eyes and what a sap he is; instead she tries to get comfy again, eyes slipped shut, but Peter just _won’t let up._ He starts tapping lightly at her cheeks.

“Hey, no, no,” he begs lightly. “I know it sucks. Please stay awake.”

Michelle refuses to open her eyes. “We’re _at_ the hospital. They’re monitoring me. And I think that the fact that I’m even capable of holding this conversation with you qualifies me for nap time. I’m _fine.”_

“I know, it’s just-” he stops short with a sigh.

She opens one eye. “What.”

“I guess...my concussions are always...I dunno. May and Tony never let me sleep.”

Michelle snorts out a laugh, closing her eyes again. “Jeez. You act like you get concussed all the time.”

Peter starts to fidget. She can _hear it._ “Well, no. Not _all_ the time.”

The realization snaps both her eyes open. She sits up quick, painfully slow, jostling her IV in the process. “I know you’re a bit of an idiot but don’t tell me you’re so idiotic to have got some sort of concussion tally going on.”

“It’s not the same,” Peter reassures her, laying a hand on one of her shoulders to push her back down on the bed. “I’m…I’m not the same. So it’s different. I recover differently. It’s not that bad, I promise.”

But still, Michelle doesn’t like the implications. She’s seen Peter, _Spider-Man,_ swinging across New York. He seems to know what he’s doing. And he overhears his conversations with Ned about what bad guy he fought the night before. He always comes out unscathed. Or at least that’s what she thought. The Avengers scale superhero missions are always dangerous. But Michelle kinda thought that Peter was at least safe here, swinging around New York.

Guess not.

But she doesn’t want to think about that anymore. Her mind has kept drifting to Peter’s secret life as a vigilante all night and it’s making her want to _puke._ And Michelle Jones is better than puke.

“You’ve got one more question,” she finally says, “And then I’m done. So you better make it a good one.”

Peter seems to take her offer very seriously. Too seriously. But maybe she can’t really blame him. She’s promised one more question, any question really, because she’s too concussed and hyped up on drugs to lie, so he’s probably trying to come up with some good blackmail material.

He doesn’t. What he comes up with is, “What’s your favorite song?”

“Really? A song? No deep philosophical inquiry into my psyche or something?”

Peter wrinkles his nose, not fond of her word choice. “Bleh. Your head is probably a labyrinth anyway, don’t want to get stuck in there. Besides, I’m not gonna ask something real personal when you’re all drugged out with a booboo head. It’s not _nice._ It’s not the _Spider-Man way.”_

“Didn’t know you had some written credo lying around.”

“Carved in stone and everything.” He cracks a slanted smile and leans into her bed, elbow on the cot and chin resting in his palm. “So let’s hear it. Favorite song.”

“Why do you wanna know?”

“You’re favorite song says a lot about you. And I don’t mean the one you tell everyone because you don’t want them to know you’re _real_ favorite song. I want to know the real _real_ favorite song.”

“Repetition doesn’t change the value of the original word, it’s just _annoying.”_

“Repetition is annoying?” Peter asks. “Huh. Never knew. Like, I _never_ knew that. Like, _never never ever-”_

Michelle groans loudly to cut him off. Then she spills. “9 to 5.”

Peter perks up, shooting up from his crouch by her bedside. “What?”

“My favorite song,” she admits, internally cursing herself. “Is 9 to 5.”

“The Dolly Parton song!?”

“....yes, okay.”

“Ohhhhh”

“Peter.”

“Myyyyyyyy”

“Not this again. Please.”

“Gooooodddddd.”

“I regret ever calling you for help.”

He sobers a bit at her throw away comment, genuinely trying to swallow his laughter. It’s not really working, but she can see that he’s trying. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I’m not making fun. I just didn’t expect it.”

“It’s a good song.”

“I know. I just didn’t expect it from _you.”_

Michelle closes her eyes, this time _determined_ to get her nap before CT. “I guess there’s still a little bit we have to learn about each other, huh.”

Peter’s hands find its way back to playing with her hair, but his knuckles stray to brush against her cheek. The fabric of his suit, fingers fashioned in what looks like the world’s most hideous pair of gloves, feel strange on her skin.

“Yeah. I guess we do.”

Michelle gets maybe _four minutes_ of sleep before one of the techs come up and wakes her up to take her to CT. It doesn’t take long at all, she’s back in her room before she knows it, but the results take a little longer. But eventually, the doctor comes in with an easy smile on his face and his nurse in tow. She goes to unhook Michelle’s IV, which she takes as a good sign.

Peter, however, has a vice grip on her hand. The dumb-dumb is _nervous_ for her, which is ridiculous.

“Good news. CT came back clear,” the doctor says, and Peter gives her hand a squeeze that almost _hurts_ before he finally lets go. “No signs of a brain bleed. The wound on your head isn’t all that serious and the bleeding stopped a long time ago. You’re just gonna have a bit of a headache for some time, maybe a few days.”

“Does she need to be admitted?” Peter asks, and the nurse slows with the IV unhooking.

“We _can_ admit her, but I don’t think it’s necessary. It’s still a moderate concussion though, I’d keep an eye on her tonight. Have someone wake her up every two hours to make sure her condition remains stable. If her pupils are dilated, or she’s unable to speak clearly, that’s when you call 911. Otherwise, I’ll send her home with some pain medication and she’s all set.” He looks at Peter. “Are you taking her home?”

“Yeah, I got her,” Peter says softly, accepting the discharge papers and prescription for Michelle’s pain medication. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Hope you feel better Miss Jones. I hope they catch the guy that did this to you.”

She can _hear_ Peter grinding his teeth. His jaw is set. He’s not happy.

She wonders why he hasn’t grilled her about her attacker yet, anyhow.

The morphine’s edge is long gone and Michelle just manages a nod before the doctor slips out. She remains quiet as the nurse bandages her up and then looks wildly around the room, eyes scanning the floor. “Shit,” she swears, “Where are your shoes?”

“She, uh, doesn’t have any.” He runs a hand through his hair and the sleeve of the borrowed jacket he’s wearing starts to slip, but his reflexes manage to catch it before anyone notices the suit. “Mugger took them.”

Jesus. Christ. Peter is the worst liar on the planet. How does all of new New York not know he’s Spider-Man?

The answer is, because, New York is full of some weird shit. And a mugger stealing some girls shoe is not the weirdest thing this nurse has ever heard, probably not even the weirdest thing she’s heard tonight. She accepts it without argument and gives them one last goodbye before they’re left to leave the ER on their own.

“I can probably get Happy Hogan to drive you home. He’s Miss Potts head of security.” Peter says once they’re outside. He seems grateful for the chill, having to keep the coat on indoors, but Michelle is _not._ She clings to Peter’s side and he lets her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and pulling her close. “I don’t have...my _phone,”_ He pauses to adjust the strap of her backpack that he insists on carrying. “I’ll have to sneak off and use my mask to talk to Karen, but I can call him.”

“I don’t think Mister Happy would be very _Happy_ to pick up two teenagers at…Christ, I bet it’s 3am.”

Peter shrugs. “No, but he’ll still come get you. For free, too. I don’t want to walk you back to Queens in the cold, it’s too far.”

Michelle shakes her achy, achy head. “No. I live here. Three blocks, actually.”

“You live in _Brooklyn?_ What, no. No….wait, how do I not know that.”

“I don’t live _live_ here-”

“Ugh. Repetition. So _annoying.”_

She elbows him for the interruption. “I'm just temporarily staying elsewhere. My parents are overseas. Ines is working on some conservation project in South Africa and Sabrina tagged along to teach a few classes as a visiting professor at a university in Johannesburg.”

Peter has a small frown on his face. “How long have they been gone?”

“Just the semester,” Michelle shrugs. “They’ll be back in May.” She looks up at him and rolls her eyes for the umpteenth time. “Don’t worry, I’m not often left alone to my own devices like this. It was a big opportunity for the both of them. It’s _good_ okay. They call me every day like loving, overbearing mothers do.”

He seems to relax, just a little. “So who _are_ you staying with?”

“You’re way over your question limit, _alternate.”_ And Peter gawks, quick on the defense that _Eugene_ is the alternate, not him, despite his deplorable attendance at some times. “I guess you’ll find out when we get there.”

Peter looks down at Michelle as she wiggles her hospital-issued sock covered feet. “Want your shoes back? I don’t think people will notice the suit on my feet this late at night.”

She kinda does. It’s the logical thing to do. Get her shoes back and walk back to her place with as much dignity as one who was hit with a crowbar can have.

But she shakes her head no. Instead she wraps her arms around Peter’s neck and buries her face into his bicep, hoping he’ll get the hint.

He does. Silently and swiftly, he picks her up like she’s a feather and wraps her legs securely around his waist.

When Peter turns his head, his lips brush against her cheek and she swears she feels a ghost of a kiss before he mumbles, “You good?”

“I’m fine,” she manages and then, without thinking (dumb concussion) says, “You’re...strong.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I am.”

“I’ve seen the video on Youtube where you stop a bus. That’s...real, huh.”

“Mmhm.”

She can’t stop _talking._ “I’ve always known you were Spider-Man, but I haven’t really thought about you actually _being_ him, until now. If that makes sense.”

He hesitates, just a moment, his breath fanning out in a small white puff out the corner of her eye. “Yeah, it makes sense.”

She thinks of the concussion tally. “I never thought about how much you get hurt.”

“I don’t, not that often,” he’s quick to assure, quick to _lie._ Her brain give her a moment of normalcy and she’s able to remember all the times Peter’s come in with one-day limps and bruises. “It always looks worse than it feels. I’m strong, remember? I can bench press a truck.”

She rests her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes. She wants to believe him. At least right now. “Okay.”

“I heal really quick,” he adds on to the assurances. “What takes you a week to recover from takes me three hours.”

“That’s good.”

“So don’t worry about me. I can take it,” he whispers. “It’s why I step in to help the people who can’t.”

Michelle leans back enough to look him in the eye. “You were once just like me. And I can take a lot more than you might think,” she says, gesturing to her head. The change in weight distribution doesn’t even make Peter flinch.

His smile is sad. “Yeah, but you shouldn’t have to.” He leans in a little closer. “I’m sorry you got hurt tonight. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to stop it.”

She shrugs. “You can’t stop everything.”

“I’ve learned that,” he agrees easily, calmly. “It’s just a little harder to accept when it’s _you.”_

They stare at each other for too long to be platonic and acceptable before Peter sighs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and gently guiding her head back to his shoulder.

"I know you were joking when you said you wish you'd never called me. But. MJ?"

"Yeah."

"You can always call me."

"I know."

Peter only puts her down as soon as they’re at her front door. And it’s only as he’s ringing the doorbell does she realize _she never called her uncle to tell him why she was so late coming home._

The door rips open at a speed that makes Michelle think her uncle was sitting right behind the door, waiting. “AMES!” he yells, pulling both her and Peter into the apartment. “Amy, she’s here!”

Her aunt rounds the corner, and Michelle barely registers the worry etched into her face before her uncle pulls her into a tight hug. “Uncle Jake,” she wheezes. “I’m fine,” she says when Jake starts messing with her bandages. “You can let go.”

“You were supposed to be home _hours_ ago. What happened?” Amy asks, looking at Peter for answers.

He grimaces. “Um. MJ got mugged. She called me and I took her to the hospital.”

“My phone died right after,” Michelle lies quickly. She prays her phone doesn’t ding with some fucking bullshit text from Flash to the decathlon group chat because she cannot handle that kind of nonsense right now. Then she plays the sick card. Or rather, the humorous but not so humorous injury card. “Someone hit me over the head with...I dunno. I thought it was -”

“Monkey wrench? Lead pipe?” He’s way too excited about crime for a _cop_. “Was it a Victorian age candlestick?”

“Crowbar,” Michelle answers flatly.

He turns to Amy, grin still apparent, though a little guilty. “Sorry. Mugging is terrible and women face unfair dangers walking at night always, _but,_ I need to arrest an assault perp named Green or Brown before Rosa does if I want to win _Cluedo Catch._ ”

Michelle can sympathize with that. However, “I have no idea what he looked liked. He….” she frowns, and shifts her weight, swaying too much for Peter’s liking in the process. He grabs her am and holds her to his side. “He snuck up on me. I don’t even know if it was a _he.”_

“Do you remember anything?” Amy asks, and not unkindly. “Clothing? His voice, maybe?”

Peter’s eyes are on her, intense, as she looks at the ground in defeat. “No. Sorry.”

“That’s okay. I’ll still draw up a report. Someone will get him eventually.”

“Right,” Michelle says slowly, looking at Peter from the corner of her eye. “Maybe even Spider-Man.”

Peter squeaks, immediately clasping his suit-clad hands behind his back.

Michelle’s no idiot. She’s not _cruel_ either. She’d never spill Peter’s secret to someone. But she does know what mentioning Spider-Man in front of her uncle will do, and she thinks Peter deserves to hear it.

“Oh. Em. Gee,” Jake squeals. “Did you see Spider-Man tonight? He’s never in Brooklyn!” He gasps. “Does this mean my Spidey Signal works?”

Peter’s brow twitches. “Spidey Signal?”

Amy rolls her eyes. “He put a giant _contraption_ on the roof of the precinct that _sometimes_ shines a _vaguely spider shaped_ light into the sky.”

“The Spidey Signal _will_ prevail, Amy.”

Beside her, Peter is still stiff as a board, nervous. “Oh, you guys are cops….” he hesitates. “I didn’t think cops liked Spider-Man? He’s….well, vigilantes are illegal, right?”

“Okay, yeah, _but,”_ Jake says, leaning in close and dropping his voice into what is only an acceptable indoor voice instead of his usual shout. “Between you and me, Spidey is _hella cool._ I mean with the whole,” He jerks back suddenly, miming Peter’s web shooting with his hands. “Phew phew! And the flying! And the super strength. He stopped a bus once, did you know that?”

Peter looks like he’s trying really hard not to laugh. “I heard, yeah.”

“And,” Amy chimes in. “He doesn’t kill or hurt bad guys. He just webs them up with those….well, webs.” She pulls a face. “Those things are really sticky, though. And not machine washable. I got some in one of my shirts once, and that stuff does  _not_ come out.”

Jake gives a dreamy sigh, obviously uncaring to his wife’s laundry dilemma. “I’d give anything to work with him. Can you imagine him on one of our drug busts? The war stories we’d have. And then afterwards, we’d get a beer together, talk about our _flawless_ teamwork. He’d let me put on the mask. He’d call me his sidekick and teach me the ways of being a superhero. It’d be mega awesome.”

Peter’s got his lips pressed tightly together, trying to hide some of his laughter. Michelle chimes in with, “I hear he’s pretty young. What if Spider-Man isn’t old enough to drink.”

“Fine, we’d get a juice box. Apple for me, grape for him. Crazy straws are a _must._ You won’t crush my dream, MJ. You just won’t.”

“Okay, I think that’s enough with the Spider-Man talk. I’m sure Michelle doesn’t want to hear it.” Amy says, pulling Michelle aside to the kitchen to take a look at her bandages and the prescriptions that Peter had somehow handed her when she wasn’t looking.

“I just have so many questions! Like, why mostly Queens? Are there crime statistics I’m not aware about? How did he get the powers. Was it a magical spider? Do the webs come out of him? Or does he just think spiders are cool? Ugh, what a guy.”

Peter has finally managed to control his giggles. “Maybe one day you’ll get to meet him.”

"I'm  _counting_ on it."

Michelle give him a pointed look from across the room, which he obviously tries to ignore.

“But anyway, I should really head back.” He’s moved his hands so they’re hidden, stuffed under his armpits. “I'm getting tired. Something's...gotta give, you know?"

Michelle glares.

"Plus, I, too, have an Aunt that’s waiting up for me. And she really needs her sleep. Workin’ 9 to 5 and all.” Peter’s grin is a downright _smirk._

Michelle resists flipping him off.

Jake sobers pretty quickly, gesturing to the front door. “You’re not walking, right? I can drive you. Heard there’s a crazy dude with a crowbar out there.”

“I’ve got a cab waiting downstairs,” Peter lies. “But thank you, really.” He looks over past Jake’s shoulder at Amy. “Listen, she has a concussion, so the doctor said -”

Amy already has her phone out, setting the alarms. “ -wake her up every two hours. Don’t worry. I’m on it.”

“Great. Thanks,” He looks at Michelle, all googly-eyed and _Peter-like_ and she’s starting to think her concussion really hasn’t been messing with her brain as much as she thought it has. Maybe that’s just how he _looks_ at her that _idiot._ “Night, MJ.”

Jake slaps a hand over his eyes and declares (loudly). “You can kiss your boyfriend goodnight! I won’t look!” He spreads his fingers for a moment, just to give Michelle a wink before he uses his other hand to cover Amy’s. “Amy’s not looking either!”

“Uncle Jake.”

“Oh, just kiss him!”

Michelle sighs and walks over to Peter, intending to give him a simple hug and a shove out the door when that decidedly doesn’t happen. Instead, Peter pulls her in close and plants a kiss on her forehead.

“Walk you home tomorrow?” he asks.

She finds herself nodding. “Yeah. Okay.”

After he leaves, after Jake and Amy are done _fussing,_ Michelle practically swan dives into her mattress. But she’s not in her bed for even five minutes before her phone starts pinging with text messages from Peter.

The first is a shared contact of a  _Helen Cho,_ with a short message explaining that she can replace whatever meds Michelle lost.

The second is far more amusing, It’s a picture of Peter; he's in the Spider suit, having ditched her coat and sweats somewhere (she wants them back) and sitting next to what has to be Uncle Jake’s infamous _Spidey Signal_ on top of the nine-nine precinct. He’s still wearing Michelle’s mismatched converse.

 _Please send this to your uncle,_ he writes, _and tell me exactly what he says_

Michelle rolls her eyes and decides that Peter being Spider-Man really isn’t that weird after all.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, both her and her uncle are wearing two different colored converse.

**Author's Note:**

> I hear if you say keanu reeves three times, he magically appears
> 
> idk jake has a ton of half siblings he doesn't really know, I thought it'd be funny if one of them was michelle's mom. i made jake peralta michelle jone's uncle gjhgkjdhkjdhfkjghdhg. I tried to do a crossover fic I tRIED pls don't eat me.
> 
> this is like....two fics smashed in one. I don't care tho I had fun. nine nine 2night!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> EDIT: this fic stands alone. HOWEVER. I have made it part 1 in a trilogy of b99xspideychelle fics so if you want more brooklyn 99, click on over to part two. If you've had enough, fair! thanks for stopping by.


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